


Save Tonight (Fight the Break of Dawn)

by overratedantihero



Series: Holding Out for a Hero ('Til the Morning Light) [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Barely Explicit, Flexible Dick, M/M, Messing Around While Surrounded By Fallen Enemies, Mild Sexual Content, Threats of Violence, Tumblr Prompt, Very flexible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 17:39:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16769794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overratedantihero/pseuds/overratedantihero
Summary: Prince Richard of Gotham has been kidnapped by an insidious and jealous enemy of the kingdom. To protect the rest of the family, King Bruce hires a mercenary to fetch his son. The mercenary delivers more than his contract requires, to Prince Richard's delight.





	Save Tonight (Fight the Break of Dawn)

**Author's Note:**

> Slade's attire is loosely based on attire worn by the Hashshashin. Everyone else has loose Medieval inspiration, down to the swears. 
> 
> Based on an anon Tumblr Prompt:  
> A royalty Au with Dick being kidnapped and Bruce calling upon the Mercenary, Slade, to rescue him.

Prince Richard was a knight. The Crown Prince, yes, but firstly a knight. A highly regarded knight, of his father’s own order. One who’d braved leagues of travel, beyond land and sea, in service of his kingdom. Who could defeat several men larger and more experienced than himself on his own, sometimes one handed and with a smirk.

But he’d traded his armor in favor of fineries fit for the feast that Bruce insisted he attend. And it was while at the feast, unarmed and unprepared, that he was taken. Bruce had recognized the insignia and colors of the decorated individuals before they’d even drawn their swords. He'd cried out, to stop them, but the room was too small, Bruce's warning came too late. In the resulting chaos, Prince Richard was lost.

A room full of knights, felled by the pawns of a higher power. One with which Bruce was achingly familiar.

In the aftermath, when the abductors had long left with their precious cargo, Bruce shouted at the staff to clean the disarranged Great Hall. His steward frowned in reproach, but otherwise set to work in orchestrating the cleanup as well as the polite dismissal of guests.

Bruce, as king, had an obligation to assure the household and those present of their safety, and it was his obligation to explain the measures that would be taken to ensure security. He did no such thing. Instead, he whispered in his steward’s ear before leaving to brood in his private quarters, trailed closely after by three of the remaining princes. He permitted their closeness, if only because it provided a small comfort in the wake of the tragedy.

Once inside his chambers, the king sat heavily on the nearest chaise, cradling his head in his hands.

“He’s going to kill him,” Prince Jason hissed, hand on his sword. Unlike most of the others, Jason never dressed down for any occasion, always sporting plate armor and at least one sword. “He’s going to kill Dick just as he did me, and we have no reason to believe that Dick shares my luck. Allow me to rescue Dick and kill the Jester, for once and for all,” Jason growled, lurching forward so close that Bruce could count his pores should he so be inclined. Bruce straightened his back. Small comfort indeed. 

“No,” Bruce murmured. Jason’s eyes widened.

“Still?” Jason laughed, high pitched and deranged. “Still you protect that monster?”

“Father,” Prince Damian began, striding to stand by his brother, “for once, we should heed Sir Todd. The Jester has never liked Sir Grayson, and his sword grows rusty with blood.” Damian’s lower lip trembled, betraying his youth. “I will not have him touching Grayson.” 

“They’re right,” Prince Tim murmured, from where he leaned against the nearest wall. “The Jester enjoys toying with you, but his distaste for Dick… for us. It extends beyond any game. He sees Dick as the first barrier to his enjoyment of you. He likely took Dick only to kill and discard him, to be done with it all.” Tim pushed away from the wall and crossed his arms. “Send us to rescue our brother, to bring him home. If you worry about our numbers, we have the Princess, Duke, and Kate too.”

Three, resolute faces glared up at Bruce. Bruce took a moment to meet each of their eyes. 

“Are you all quite finished?” Bruce asked. Tim furrowed his eyebrows, but Jason and Damian wore twin open-mouthed expressions of disgust that would have been heartwarming in any other circumstance.

Bruce stood, forcing the boys to step back. Jason did not remove his hand from his sword, but he did close his mouth.

“None of you will go. It’s as Prince Tim has said; the Jester has a vested interest in each of your deaths, and I will not lose all four of you, nor will I let you drag others into your death march.”

“Bruce!” Jason shouted. Bruce raised a hand.

“Do not speak before I finish, Jason,” Bruce chided, losing his formality in his irritation. Jason sneered. “As I was saying,” Bruce continued. “None of you will go. But we will recover Prince Richard. I’ve asked Alfred to contract help, to ensure Dick’s safe return without endangering anyone else within the Court.”

“A mercenary,” Tim scoffed. “You’ve hired a mercenary.”

“Foolish,” Damian spat. “A mercenary will chase a higher bribe, which the Jester can offer. Mercenary interests are fleeting and unreliable.”

Bruce didn’t even think to chide Damian for his disrespect. He was too consumed with how he should frame what he had to confess next.

“Not a mercenary,” Bruce said slowly, glancing up at the ceiling. “The mercenary. I requested a former associate of Prince Richard’s, to address any concerns regarding… investment.”

Jason barked out a laugh. “I see,” he murmured. “The Jester still must die, but as far as rescue plots go, this one is interesting coming from you, Old Man.”

“I must be honest,” Tim murmured, “I believe I know about whom we speak, but I don’t quite understand Jason’s… mirth.”

“Father has hired Deathstroke the Terminator to rescue Prince Grayson, but he and Prince Grayson share an illicit, unsavory history,” Damian spouted, which only drew more laughter from Jason. Tim huffed.

“And how do you know all of this?” Tim hissed, leaning down to lord his height over Damian. Damian scrunched his nose at Tim’s closeness.

“Grayson has a private diary. Perhaps, you should pursue your studies more closely if you’re incapable of basic detective work, Drake,” Damian ground out.

“Enough,” Bruce muttered. “Leave me. I will alert you should there be any updates.”

The three left whilst bickering all the while. When the close of the great wooden door cut off the sound of their voices, Bruce sagged against the nearest wall and cursed.

* * *

Dick regretted leaving his armor behind when he’d gone to the feast. It was expected of him, as Crown Prince, to dress the part, but ‘twas a role he never wanted. He preferred his swords to his crown, and he preferred to walk rather than be carried in a sack across some massive ne’er-do-well’s back.

Although, to be perfectly fair, he hadn’t always been in the sack. The sack had been employed after Dick nearly broke the neck of another one of his captors with his legs. He’d been largely unsuccessful, but he had taken a good chunk out of the man’s wrist with his teeth.

Once the Jester finished strewing Dick’s innards across Gotham, Dick would have to file a complaint about the clumsiness and hospitality of those in the Jester’s employ.

But until then, Dick focused on breathing steady in the scratchy, humid, enclosed space while his back and neck were jostled unpleasantly with each step. His legs would be useless for the first few minutes upon his release, as cramped as they were, and so he’d be forced to rely on his hands, teeth, and wits during his next escape opportunity.

It arrived at sundown, when the group settled down for the evening. Dick was poured from the sack, but then quickly knocked upside the head with the hilt of a sword to stun him while his wrists and ankles were tied.

“Uncouth,” Dick murmured, as his vision slowly righted itself. His captors paid him no heed. One sat beside him, to watch him, while two more began a fire. The one Dick had attacked earlier was across the camp, baring his teeth at Dick. Dick bared his teeth right back.

He’d been right about his legs. They stung, and he laid out and wriggled to urge feeling back into them, up until his guard stood without word or ceremony and returned to Dick’s side with an ax. Dick stilled immediately.

“Good boy,” his captor sneered.

“Very few people can speak to me in that manner,” Dick warned, “and you’re not one of them.”

“Am I?” A new voice rumbled, followed immediately by the whistle of a thrown dagger.

The dagger buried itself deep into the neck of his hulking guard. The man gurgled and then crumbled to the ground. His bulk fell on top of Dick’s middle, knocking the breath from him. The ax, by fortune’s grace, fell before the guard and landed to the side of Dick’s body.

While Dick struggled to free himself from the dead weight, the camp erupted into short lived shouts as each one of his captors was picked off, one by one, almost as if in sport.

Eventually, all was quiet except for soft footsteps. Boots appeared in Dick’s peripheral.

“You’d have me killed!” Dick squawked, although he couldn’t quite see the newcomer’s face. “He weighs more than a horse, and he was wielding an ax!”

“I’d never. I don’t get paid if you perish. Don’t be so dramatic.”

The boots retreated, and Dick inhaled sharply as the body was kicked off him. Dick scrambled up into a sitting position. The ropes on his wrists and ankles were cut and he scrambled to his hands and knees as his bruised abdomen seized. When the remains of the feast’s splendor soiled the grass, Dick sat back on his heels, closed his eyes, and gulped air.

A body pressed behind Dick, steadying him. The mouth of a waterskin prodded at his lips and Dick drank until it was empty. Finally, he blinked and tilted his head back, to grin at his rescuer.

“Is that a codpiece, or are you just happy to see me?” Dick snarked, lifting a hand backwards to tug down the cloth that covered the lightly bearded face. “Deathstroke.”

“Kid,” Slade greeted lightly, pulling back the rest of his head covering for Dick. Dick hummed and leaned completely into Slade, propping his head on Slade’s shoulder. He subtly nuzzled Slade’s jaw as Slade resettled himself so that they were sitting in the grass rather than crouched.

“Did you murder everyone, or did you leave at least a few still breathing, as a gift to me?” Dick murmured. Slade wrapped an arm lightly around Dick’s middle.

“The water was a gift. The disposal of your assailants was a contract.”

“Bruce wouldn’t order their deaths if it could be avoided,” Dick muttered with a frown. Slade’s hand drifted, until Slade could toy with the edges of Dick’s tunic, likely ruined with dirt and sweat by then.

“While I have no doubt that Bruce ordered your rescue, it was Alfred who spoke with Wintergreen. Some details may have been… expounded upon.” Slade’s hand had crept beneath the tunic and deft fingers undid the string of Dick’s trousers. Dick frowned and grunted.

“No. You know my preference,” Dick murmured, pushing at Slade’s arm.

“You’re leaning on me, little bird. Sit up, and I can accommodate.”

Slade retracted his hand and Dick sat up, on his knees. Dick undid the string of his tunic and stroked the blue cloth of his neckline absentmindedly.

“This is finer than your usual,” Slade murmured. “Do you want me to attempt to preserve it?”

Dick absently reached behind him, until his hand found Slade’s thigh sheath. Dick unsheathed the knife and brought it forward. He positioned the tip of the blade at the end of his tunic’s chest slit and then drug it down. He delighted in how easily the thick fabric slid apart for Slade’s steel.

Dick set aside the knife and shouldered out of his shredded tunic, tossing it across the grassy encampment. The fire that his captors had built was going hot and steady, casting shadows on Slade’s face when Dick finally turned around to face him. Warmth pooled in his belly, and he straddled Slade’s lap before burying his face in the cloth that pooled around Slade’s neck and groaning.

“I love how soft your clothes always are,” Dick purred, pressing his bare chest against Slade’s, just to relish the slide of fabric against his bare skin. Unlike knights of Dick’s order, Slade did not wear armor, not even chain mail. He wore a long, soft tunic over fitted breeches and soft boots. Made of material so fine, it betrayed the breadth of Slade’s wealth.

“They need to be soft,” Slade said, not for the first time. “Otherwise, I’d be heard.”

“You certainly don’t mind being seen, what with all of this orange,” Dick murmured, even as Slade lightly thrust his hips. “And you certainly don’t wear a codpiece,” Dick snickered into Slade’s neck. More seriously, he added, “What if one day you meet your match, and you don’t have any armor?”

With a grace that shouldn’t rest in a man of his size, Slade rolled forward, spreading Dick out on the grass and nipping Dick’s neck. Dick wrapped his legs around Slade’s hips and lightly ground his hips.

“I’ve met my match,” Slade murmured into the shell of Dick’s ear. “Your thighs.”

Dick’s head fell back. “Oh,” he murmured, dazed. The fire burned far too hot, or perhaps that was Slade’s tongue on his collarbone. Slade’s lips, fingers, and tongue continued to trace the curves of Dick’s torso and musculature while Dick was left to writhe. When Slade kissed the hollow of his throat, Dick’s legs fell away and spread to give Slade the mobility to shimmy lower on Dick’s body.

Slade nipped Dick’s hipbone, and Dick reached out and fisted the back of Slade’s tunic.

“Off,” Dick demanded, tugging at it messily. Slade snorted against Dick’s skin, and Dick wiggled under the sensation. Slade sat up and removed his tunic, tossing it next to Dick. Dick turned his face and buried it in the cloth, inhaling.

“I noticed some clotted blood in your hair,” Slade murmured, watching him. “Have they knocked your head askew?”

Dick tore up some grass at threw it at Slade, although most of it just fell back onto his own sweat slick skin. “It’s soft and smells good. Be kind, you’re meant to return me home safely and you can’t do that if I toss myself off a cliff to spite you.”

“Incorrigible,” Slade murmured, raking his eyes over Dick’s bare chest. Dick preened under the attention. “Maybe I shouldn’t return you. I should just keep you to myself, teach you some discipline.”

Dick untangled his legs from around Slade and lifted them straight up. He rolled his weight onto his back and shoulders as he lifted his hips too. Slade quirked an eyebrow while Dick leisurely shimmied out of his trousers. It was impractical, he got them just beneath (or, in this pose, above) his ass before it became necessary to lower himself to move them any further.

Kindly, Slade stood to pull the trousers away for Dick, before spreading Dick’s legs, falling to his knees, and sliding between them.

“Brace,” Dick warned. Slade grunted in acknowledgement. Dick wrapped his legs around Slade’s waist, tightened his grip, and then pulled up the rest of his body with only his core and legs until he could wrap his arms around Slade’s neck. Slade, as promised, braced for the action and provided the unnaturally strong support that Dick could usually only get from trees and his ex-fiancée.

Dick giggled against Slade’s lips.

“Enjoying yourself?” Slade mused, supporting Dick's legs as he stood to his full height. He released Dick to undo his own breeches, allowing Dick to hold himself up. Dick nodded and then reached down to wrap a hand around himself and stroke lightly. 

“Immensely. When are we expected back?” Dick asked, releasing his thighs' tight grip on Slade’s torso when Slade, having stepped away from his discarded breeches, wrapped his arms around Dick’s waist.

“Daybreak,” Slade sighed, as Dick traced the head of Slade’s cock with a fingertip. Dick grinned.

“Plenty of time.”

Dick caught Slade's chin and kissed him. Slade acquiesced easily enough when Dick deepened the kiss, but Dick pulled away with a hiss when Slade began thrusting his cock against's Dick's. Dick nipped Slade's lower lip. "When are you leaving? Surely not when the contract ends, not when you're already here?" he breathed, rolling his hips with Slade. They needed to put out the fire. The air around them was humid and crackling with pent energy. It was all too warm, it was making Dick feel desperate. 

"Daybreak," Slade murmured. 

"By the blood of Christ," Dick cursed. "Do it right then." 

"Language," Slade chided, before shoving Dick against a tree. 

* * *

Dick arrived in his father’s arms, as promised, at daybreak.

“You’re wearing their clothes,” Bruce murmured, pulling at the foreign threads. “Why? What happened to your tunic?”

Dick pulled away and worried his lip, looking down and away. “It was awful, B. They tore up my tunic and were going to use it as a gag before Slade arrived. I think they meant to torture me.” 

Bruce’s eyebrows raised incredulously, and Jason certainly didn’t help when he strode forward and pulled the too-big tunic away from Dick’s neck, revealing a smattering of bruises and bites.

“Simply awful,” Jason deadpanned. “Torturous.”

“Slade!” Bruce viciously shouted.

Slade ceased counting gold from atop his horse long enough to glance over and say, “My task was to return him, alive and, preferably, in one piece by daybreak. I did so. Any muscle strain he incurred in the process thereof is his to bear. Lest I overstay my welcome, farewell, King. Princes.” Slade put away the gold, gripped the reigns of his horse, and promptly exited before Bruce's ire could swell.

The three watched him disappear.

“Don’t write down any of what happened,” Jason murmured with a smirk. “I know you keep a journal.”

“Why would you know that? And why assume I’d detail something as terribly boring as a failed abduction?” Dick asked, eyebrow cocked. Jason sauntered away with a whistle. 

**Author's Note:**

> Unlike literally every other series I've ever done, works in this series do not exist in the same universe. They're all just thematic :)


End file.
